


Spoken for

by Astre



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 01:25:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astre/pseuds/Astre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little glimpse of the present day (post s4) and mostly 1864, when Damon returns home on leave, meets Katherine, an old powerful pretty vampire, and in consequence finds himself fighting a losing battle. Or, perhaps, he simply fights to lose. Or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spoken for

**Author's Note:**

> Smutty, but mostly 1864-style, also some minor blood-play

_There's a game, That I played. There are rules, I had to break.  
There's mistakes, That are made. But I made 'em my way.  
(c) Black Lab - This Night _

“Mind if I join you?” she inquires in a sing-song tone of her sweet-sounding voice. Damon arrived late last night but he knows who she is – they were briefly introduced – she's Miss Katherine Pierce, their Father's 18-year-old ward on the run from the War. Seen now, in broad daylight, she looks pretty, shapely and innocent. That's why, naturally, Stefan feels awkward in her presence. It's so obvious that Damon's a bit sorry for his younger brother, while the latter mumbles under her intent gaze, “Uh, well, you could, uh, you could get hurt. My brother likes to play rough.”

“Goodness gracious!” Damon thinks, “Stefan and girls is such fun to watch.”

But here she turns to him and her defiant eyes meet his, and his thoughts freeze. She _is_ pretty, but it's the mischievous smile playing around her lips that makes him stare in awe. She stares back at him with no shyness whatsoever. And he feels a little conquered for he likes him some audacity in girls. Some spunk. 

“Somehow I think that you play rougher,” she teases him bluntly and off she runs with the ball. 

“Why are you just standing there?” Damon eggs his brother on, nudging his shoulder with his own “That is a girl who clearly wants to chased...” and when Stefan keeps being slow-wittedly irresolute, he adds, “If you don't do it I will!”

And he chases after Miss Katherine and Stefan chases after them. And the three of them fool around on the lawn, running and snatching the ball from each other for quite a while. And after the War it's such a change for Damon that he genuinely wishes it would last for hours more. But presently Father comes out on the porch and summons Stefan inside to help him with some paperwork.

With Stefan gone, Damon is left alone with her. And he's still holding Miss Katherine by the wrist. It's _nothing_ , just a part of the game. The _football_ game they had been playing before Father called. But then she looks down at their hands and then up, straight at him, and she makes it seem like it's a big deal. Like he's holding her hand because he has some improper reason behind the gesture. He doesn't. Well, he didn't. 

And he feels he has to break the moment, but he's a bit confused and he just doesn't know what about to talk with her. Most girls he's talked to were his acquaintances since childhood or they were _that_ sort of girls. And she's a complete stranger. He lets go of her hand.

“Are you always so shy, Mr. Salvatore?” she asks. 

And he blushes. Damn, he knows, he blushes. Darn it! 

“I'm not shy,” he disagrees. And immediately realizes he's made things worse. Not only shy, but stupid also and tongue-tied. Well done, Damon!

She smiles at his predicament and walks off, towards the Manor. He stays behind, blinking and contemplating existential issues. Like, why he did worse than his baby brother.

***

At dinner table she sits right opposite him. He casts a few furtive looks at her, and she doesn't seem to notice. He can't decide whether she's too naïve or, on the contrary, way too... _for god's sake_... he can't actually find the right word. Vivid or, perhaps, frank. And disarmingly young and pretty to play any sort of games his imagination suggests she might. But there's something about her, he can't really define what. It's not just spunk, he noticed earlier, there's more to it. So he confines himself to observing, while pecking at his roast meat. And he nearly chokes when he feels her slide her bare silk-stocking-ed foot along his inner thigh. 

His first impulse is to jump up from the table in some righteous indignation, because, _hey_ , it's dinner and she's talking to Father and the guests, Mr. and Mrs. Lockwood. And they are discussing like Confederacy defeats and fighting for one's causes and patriotism and all.

The only reason he remains seated is because he's just, um... stupefied. His first more or less coherent thought is that there must be some kind of mistake. Well, yeah, he's heard anecdotes about girls doing _things_ , but they, by no means, were his Father's wards or ladies for that matter. He looks at her and she has a sort of small cunning smile at the corners of her mouth that he just... sits there, trying hard to remember how to breathe.

She pushes her foot an inch further and her gentle toes touch him right in... well... _that spot_. Gosh, he knows the names for it and he's even capable of saying them out loud, what! But using such words in one sentence with _her_ name seems so utterly indecent that he can't. Even to himself. 

He swallows and puts his left hand under the table. He _means_ to push her foot away but then - _Are you always so shy, Mr. Salvatore?_ \- the words echo across his mind and his trembling fingers circle around her silken sole and instep. And he's lost. He can't look her in the face. He hears nothing but his own blood hammering in his ears. He reckons he must be red like some darn beetroot. But he can do nothing about it. Not while under the table she has her foot in his groin and above the table his Father has a social gathering.

And then he knows, something's happened for he realizes that the people at table are not talking anymore but everyone's looking at him intently, as if waiting for him to reply. But, he'd be damned if he knows what they've been talking about for the last ten minutes.

“Well?” Father urges, displeasure poorly hidden in his voice.

The only thing Damon can do is gape at his Father, feeling ultimately dumb and awkward. 

“But Damon, surely, agrees with Mr. Lockwood, Father. ” Stefan prompts obligingly. “Don't you, Damon?”

“Yes,” he blurts out. “Yes, I do.”

“Good boy,” grumbles old Lockwood. “I told you, Giuseppe, the lad's still got that fighting spirit!”

Her foot trembles as if she's laughing inside. He can't help squeezing it lightly and she moves her toes in response, thus stroking the delicate fabric of his trousers and everything he's got underneath. By some miracle he doesn't drop his fork. The world around him is a blur.

When she removes her foot and he suddenly feels bereft. And wanting for more. He devours her with his eyes. She helps herself to the dessert as if nothing. He catches the glimpse of the tip of her tongue as she eats the cream from the teaspoon. And then she licks the chocolate off her upper lip. Slowly she does. She enjoys that chocolate licking, and all of a sudden she looks up, straight in his face, her lips still parted and wet. Needless to say, he misses his Father's musings on the current political situation in Atlanta. Instead, the stories he heard from his merry companions-in-arms flash through his mind, stories about wanton girls _crafty_ with their mouth or lips, or both, touching men... well... _down there_ , you know. And not just touching but... here his thoughts stop being coherent again, for imagining Miss Katherine doing anything of the sort shuts his brain down. 

And then the dinner is over and the ladies adjourn to the Oak Drawing-room. Once she's out of sight he finally manages to restore his breath. As for the rest of him – he doesn't know where he stands. He's totally and unconditionally confused. Hooked up, that's it. The only thing he knows is that he'll do anything to snatch a kiss from her. After all, isn't he a brave son of the Confederacy? And a notorious good-for-nothing scapegrace and a lady's man, according to Father. There's always a reputation to keep, isn't there? Or to ruin, for that matter.

***

He confronts Stefan that evening, because it occurs to him he's guessed what it was. It was kind of a joke Stefan and Miss Katherine played on him, sort of welcome home stunt. She couldn't have invented that by herself, he tells himself. Not she. Not the girl with so clear starry eyes. Must have been Stefan's idea and she played along because she thought there was no harm in it, just fun. For she's unexperienced and, hence, too innocent to be meaning anything vulgar behind it. As for Stefan... well, it's not exactly his idea of fun, true, but on the other hand, he's young and, perhaps, he doesn't yet realize the boundaries beyond which a prank becomes a glaring blunder. Nothing's wrong with an insignificant venturing over the edge, but, _hell_ , he had to take a cold bath to chill himself out after the dinner.

“Jolly dinner, wasn't it?” he remarks, looking daggers at Stefan.

Stefan stops his diary scribbling – a hideous habit he's picked up from Father – and puts a very serious face on.

“You should control yourself better, brother,” he says. And Damon immediately follows the advice, as to not hit Stefan right away. 

“Oh, really?” he snaps.

“You have your convictions,” Stefan continues. “I understand and respect that. But you know Father, he will never put up with you being an abolitionist.”

Damon's jaw drops as he flabbergastingly repeats, “Abolitionist?”

“Well, it's obvious, isn't it? You don't approve of Father's ideas. It was all over your face,” Stefan says. “I admit Father was a bit harsh about our slaves not being people but, for your own sake, you'd better be a bit more discrete when it comes to disagreeing with him _publicly_. You totally changed colour when he asked whether you realize that fighting for the Confederacy is an honour in itself.”

“Ah,” Damon twists his lips into a smirk. “That.” It's so much he can say at the moment, for, inescapably, the truth looms large: she did touch him _there_ and it was an act of her own volition and, perhaps, desire. He doesn’t yet know what to make out of this fact. So he keeps the smirk on.

Stefan takes it for remonstration. “Father won't stand defiance, you know that,” he admonishes. 

“He might as well not stand it,” Damon says. “But I will.” And there's a dogged determination in his voice. If Miss Katherine wants to play he's only too willing to take the gauntlet up. Or off, if it should come to that.

***

Next morning Damon enters the dining room just in time to see Father leave for the sawmills with Stefan, dolled up and acting all grown up, dragging in the trail.

“You're late,” Father states.

Damon rolls his eyes. “Good morning, Father,” he says smoothly. He has a right to oversleep, he thinks. Apart from anything else, he's here on leave. From War. So, that, and the fact that he didn't have a wink of sleep last night. Kept sorting through options, but mostly couldn't stop seeing her face in his mind's eye. And to tell the truth, not only face, but her exquisite figure entirely, all lace and frillies. And loose curls of dark hair hanging down onto her naked shoulders. And those radiant eyes and soft compliant lips. And, dang it! He should really stop reliving his night's fantasies for the painfully hard bulge in his trousers is totally malapropos.

He guzzles a cup of hot tea and that's his breakfast, for he has absolutely no appetite. Well, actually he has, but he's on tenter-hooks. As much as he wants this Miss Katherine situation to maintain the present course and speed, he's nor sure he can survive another meal with her right now. Too much of a good thing is just... too much. 

He escapes from the dining room and stumbles upon her in the hallway. And as far as he's concerned, the timing is fine. And the place it not too bad either. Suggestively dark-ish. 

“Good morning, Miss Katherine,” he articulates sheepishly, stretching the words: feigned-modesty is a good look on him, so, well, he's capitalizing.

“Good morning, Mr. Salvatore,” she prisses and makes a curtsy. 

His next phrase is a very well-thought one. Laboured, that is. He's been formulating it all night. Because you can't just come up to your Father's pretty ward and say, “Your messing up with my private parts at yesterday's dinner almost undid me there and then, so why don't you do it again? And again, and again... if you don't mind.” Nope, you _don't_ say that. But he actually considered the possibility for some five long seconds. 

“I've been thinking about you. All night,” he says carefully. For that's his best shot at doing it right.

Her eyelashes quiver and he catches tints of crimson in her eyes. Red sore eyes suggest crying, he reckons, which in its turn means guilt and fear. Bad sign.

“I knew, you would,” she nods, interrupting his line of thought. And he immediately gets it that fear and guilt are not the case here. And it convinces him that he's guessed right: she's seducing him.

And that's a new, because he has never _been_ seduced in his life before. He was the initiator, the one who did it. He's had his share of secret hands-holding and stolen kisses in dark after ball alleys and poetry reciting and even undying love professing. Which basically comes down to the deplorable fact: this is terra incognita, and he doesn't know what to do. But there's one thing he's pretty sure of: he can't let himself be that dumb-founded sissy anymore. 

“I wonder if you'd like me to show you our shrubbery?” he says, putting on his best lady-killer smile. And he makes sure his phrase conveys all the corrupted meanings possible.

She tilts her head to one side and watches him like some kind of farce curio.

“But Stefan's has already shown me the shrubbery,” she reveals, all pout-y. And he finds himself drowning in his own implied subtext.

“Do you play this game with everyone?” he asks disparagingly.

“Of course not, playing the same game is _boring_ ,” she says and he's not sure whether her answer makes it better or worse.

And yet again he feels stupid and insecure. “So much for confusion”, he tells himself and does what he knows he's good at: he kisses her.

He's quite a kisser, he's had lots of practice and, thus, confirmation. He's all gentle and intent. He sucks at her lower lip but modestly, almost prudishly. She lets him do that, she's ardently into the kiss but the initiative is all his, which gives him some ground and confidence. He puts his right hand on her waist and immediately has a sharp urge to pull and press her body to his, but he knows he can't, for he already wants her. Sure, she won't be able to feel his desire because of the corset and skirts, but it would be totally improper anyway, and he knows his limits. So he makes up for the clearance between them by a volatile french kiss, which is more of an imitation than an actual one. And then he steps back and waits, for he knows what comes next – a slap in the face. He's been playing this game for a while, he knows the rules. 

She looks at him and he knows the expression, that “kiss-me-more” plea in her eyes. But it lasts only a second and then her lips curve into a cattish smile. 

“Are you a virgin, Mr. Salvatore?” she asks. And awkwardly enough he immediately feels like one, though, God knows, he's not. 

Her smile grows wider. It's humiliating. And the bitter mortification almost makes him weep. He knows better than that, of course, so he sulks. 

She laughs and the sound seems to scratch his heart. He lets her leave. And, yes, he's feeling embarrassed and weak. He hates it. But even more he hates the sickening feeling that whatever he does he'll end up like this or worse.

He goes to the stables then, gets a horse and goes riding across the fields. He's not particularly fond of this pastime but it's an excuse to take his time and put his head to rights. The fresh air does him good and he returns from his flight with an armful of wild flowers – Blazing Stars, Queen Anne's Lace, Crimson Clovers, Daisies, Bluebells and many others for which he doesn't know names. He sneaks into her empty room then and puts the lot on the edge of her bed. And this is _not_ pathetic, that's pure calculation. She flirted with him, he kissed her and she did what most girls would have done – slapped him, though, unlike most girls, she did it metaphorically. But, then again, it turns out she's not most girls. By now it's perfectly clear to him. And it's also perfectly clear that any man, who's got slapped by a girl, should apologize. You can call it a cliché all you want, but it still works miracles. So, see? Pure calculation. No girl dislikes flowers and even if she does she nevertheless is sure to appreciate the gesture. 

He hears a noise downstairs and quickly retreats to the entrance hall. As if to greet those who might be coming in. It's Father, accompanied by Mr. Forbes, and Mr. Gilbert and old Lockwood. The four of them march into Father's study and close the door and Damon casts an inquiring look at Stefan, whom the estimable gentlemen have left behind. Stefan is pale and troubled and Damon sighs because he thinks that's it must be the War, finally coming to Mystic-Falls ballrooms.

Stefan puts his hat down and his fingers visibly tremble, though he's trying to stay composed.

“There's been another animal attack,” Stefan explains in a voice, which is a bit too unfaltering. “It's one of the Gilberts' cousins. They found him dead in the woods. Brought him to our mills. Neck completely torn open.”

Here Damon shrugs. Death doesn't shock him anymore. Not after two years of immediate proximity. “The Gilberts have too many cousins,” he scoffs. “So prolific. They'll make up for the lost one soon enough.”

And he's not trying to be purposefully cruel or anything, he's just being himself, but Stefan glares at him, stunned, “Don't you have respect for human life, Damon?” he snaps. And Damon shrugs again for, most probably, he does not. Or, perhaps, he did, but it was before he killed for the first time. Or fifth, or whatever. Because when it's war and people die round you every now and then and you know it matters but can't do a fucking thing about it, well, you either stop worrying or you go off your rocker. But that's a hard thing to explain to one's baby brother, who's a complete do-gooder and who despite the civil war manages to remain so civil-fucking-lized.

“Stef,” Damon says with a ghost of a smirk, “Look at the brighter side of the things – one lucky mountain lion had a hell of a lunch.”

But Stefan shakes his head and darts upstairs to his room. And his unconscious expression makes Damon wince – for he knows that expression only too well: it's disappointment he's so often seen on Father's face whenever the latter happened to lay his eyes on his first born. Damon shrugs for the third time. _C'est la vie_ , he guesses. He also guesses, he'll do with a drink.

***

He spends the rest of the day in the library. Alone. Safe for some sherry and _«Les liaisons dangereuses»_. He's depressed because, you know, degrading to Chevalier de Danceny is... yep, depressing. And discouraging. He used to like the scandalous French belles-lettres, but now he thinks that novel's got it all wrong, or in any case, the Author's too hard on Marquise de Merteuil, whose main flaw is the want of love. And she's not bad or depraved. Just very lonely and misunderstood. It might as well be her way of coping with the family loss or of surviving in a men's world, while being all pretty and fragile. And he's not making any comparisons, for God's sake! 

He shoves the book off for it's not much of a help. Only messes with his head. All this blasted situation does. 

Miss Katherine... all right, _Katherine_ , is definitely special, no doubt about that. But he can't really explain why. He wants her, that's a fact. But that's quite understandable. After that under-table reconnaissance – totally inappropriate, right? – and the kiss, which turned out to be not actually _stolen_ , should it be any wonder that he's a bit lustful. And yes, “a bit” is an understatement. But the lust is the least of his worries. 

The thing that worries him the most is that he doesn't simply want Katherine, he wants to talk to her, listen to her voice, wants to see her smile, wants to sit at her feet and just... generally be around her with no particular purpose or reason, just be with her and hold hands and watch the sun go down or up or whatever. True, she's charming and he's fascinated. But the point is: contemplating marriage after two days of acquaintance is not a popular habit here, in Mystic-Falls, Virginia. 

He interrupts his mirthless reflections only because he's hungry. He had tea for breakfast. He missed lunch and he skipped dinner. So, well, too hungry. He undertakes an escapade to the kitchen then, like he used to in his childhood. 

He's not surprised to find Stefan there. But seeing his brother crouched on the floor and drunk as a skunk, is somewhat unusual. Yeah, he's seen Stefan drink... half a glass at Christmas and maybe half a glass at Father's birthday. But this... this is a revelation.

“You take the Gilbert cousin's demise too much to heart, don't you think?” Damon comments, going through the pots and pans in search for food.

Stefan looks up at him, making a fine attempt to focus. “Father wants me to marry Millicent Lockwood,” he slurs.

“Oh,” Damon says, cutting a piece of a kidney pie and taking a good bite. “Tragic.”

Stefan goes into a lengthy under-tone swearing. Damon settles himself on the table's edge and adds: “She's blond, has three fox-terriers and adores embroidery,” here he raises a finger in mock-seriousness, “That's on the plus side, don't you think?”

“I don't want Millicent!” Stefan breathes out with violent strength.

“That's definitely on the minus side,” Damon nods, going for another piece of the pie. Stefan pushes the empty bottle off and it rolls clinking until it hits the table's leg. 

“Tell Father you're not qualified to be a good husband. Tell him you can't support a wife yet,” Damon suggests. “Tell him she's five fucking years older than you.”

“Have you ever been in love?” Stefan's voice is drunken, but that can't completely eradicate the tenderness with which he pronounces 'love'.

The question makes Damon plunge in thought, his latest reflections forming a vortex inside his head. 

“No,” he wrinkles his nose, “Never. Love's painful, pointless and overrated.” He might dwell upon it much longer but Stefan feels sick.

A quarter of an hour later Stefan's already in his room, sleeping soundly and snoring loudly. Back in the kitchen Damon finishes the pie, reckoning that while Stefan's prospects of love and happy marriage are just lame, his own are straightforwardly delusive. 

***

“Ah, that's you,” grumbles Giuseppe Salvatore on seeing Damon enter the dining room next morning. 

“Good morning, Father.” Damon answers, a well-practiced smile already in place. “Miss Katherine,” he adds with a small bow.

“You exert a bad influence on your brother,” Giuseppe says between two sips of tea, “You're back for only two days and he's already questioning my decisions.” 

Damon takes a cup and spreads some butter on a toast. “Don't worry, Father. I'm leaving the day after tomorrow.”

“It's high time you did,” Giuseppe nods. “The Confederacy needs every man it can get.”

Damon sinks his teeth into his bottom lip. It's high time I got used to it, he reminds himself. And it turns out he did, for the smile doesn't bleed off his lips as he responds with “Yes, Father, and I fully appreciate your readiness to sacrifice your flesh and blood for the common cause.”

Giuseppe puts his cup on the saucer with a dramatic clink. 

“Mr. Salvatore,” Katherine flings into the conversation and immediately the full attention of father and son is on her. And Damon can bet she swallows a laugh, though outwardly she's all serious and even morose.

“I don't really know how to put it,” she begins, her long eyelashes quivering, “But when I was in town on my round of visits yesterday... People are talking. About those attacks,” her voice trails off and she looks at Giuseppe with her wide open chaste eyes.

“To indulge in idle talk is in human nature,” he frowns. “Wise people don't listen.”

And now it's Damon's turn to swallow a laugh, in anticipation, that is. For he knows his Father and he knows that as far as Giuseppe Salvatore is concerned this conversation is very much over. But Miss Katherine is new to the household.

“But they say,” continues she in a hushed persistent tone, “that no God's creature could have done that to those poor men.” 

Giuseppe's eyes jerk to her face and then to Damon, who fails to stop the sarcastic “Indeed?” that flies out of his mouth, before he can envisage the consequences. She scowls at him. And to smooth his fault over he formulates a plausible question, “I mean, the honest fellows are dead and if no man or beast did it, then who?” The question is purely rhetoric for he's been at war, he knows what men can do to their kind. But that's surely not for a table-talk. But Miss Katherine knows better.

“Old Mrs. Fell says their bodies were drained of blood,” she goes on hastily, her eyes fixed on Giuseppe again, “Mrs. Fell says these unfortunate souls were taken by the evil...”

Already Giuseppe can hardly hide his annoyance. 

“But what if they really exist? Creatures that bump in the night?” Katherine presses, her eyes wide with fear. It's just about as much Giuseppe can endure. But Damon is quicker:

“Creatures ?” he chuckles. “Like what? Gigantic mosquitoes? Bats? Or, wait... vampires?”

“Enough!” Giuseppe barks, rising and throwing the napkin on the table, “Enough! I won't stand gossiping in my house!” He glares at both Damon and Katherine in turn. Damon doesn't bat an eye. Katherine modestly lowers her gaze.

His breakfast eaten and his point made, Giuseppe makes a dignified exit. 

“Forgive my Father,” Damon says when the door closes after old Salvatore, “He doesn't care for surreal intangible matters, he's more into the mundane ones, like lumber or slaves, you know. Vampires can't be put to use.”

“You don't seem to believe in vampires either?” Katherine remarks, endowing him with a smile. 

“Never seen one in my life,” Damon shrugs, “Besides, if I were a vampire, I'd never come close to Mystic-Falls. A nefarious thing from hell and this sleepy commonplace town... a total mismatch, if you ask me.”

She gives him an adorable little smile. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Mr. Salvatore, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

He ought to be pissed, but instead he can't help being irrationally happy – for she's smart and he likes it. What he doesn't like is the fact that he can't think up an appropriate answer. He just looks at her and yeah... keeps smiling. 

After what seems like an eternity of him smiling and staring – God! He even contemplates blaming his conversational malfunction on the War – she tilts her head to one side and puts him out of his misery.

“How about that shrubbery? Do you still want to show me around it?” she asks.

“With pleasure!” and up he jumps, already well aware that he won't be able to deny this girl anything. Be it the shrubbery, or his company, or his life. How did he end up like this? He doesn't know and he doesn't care. As long as she's leaning on his arm the outer world does not exist.

He leads her into a shady alley of the Salvatore park behind the Manor. It's not exactly the shrubbery but she doesn't seem to mind. He's dazed by her closeness, surrounded by the delicate scent of her perfume and he's so completely and utterly and foolishly _in love_ that he could walk with her by his side like forever and ever and never even think about stopping or turning back. 

“Don't you think we've already gone too far from the house?” she inquires, interrupting his blissful woolgathering. 

Unfortunately, this is the moment when his eloquence decides to strike back.

“It's broad daylight”, he finds himself saying. “Vampires don't walk in the sun. We're perfectly safe.”

She blinks. “You think you are being funny?” she quips and there's something in her expression that he can't really nail down. 

And he immediately berates himself for being such a moron. For only a moron would joke about vampires and safety in a city of so many unexplained deaths in a country torn by War. He squeezes her gloved hand. 

“I'll protect you,” he amends. “I'll protect you no matter what.”

And he's absolutely serious. He means every word. 

“Oh, you're so sweet,” she sighs as she laces her fingers through his. “Then you should totally see me to my room. To make sure I get there safe and sound.” 

And she leads him to the house before he can spoil it all by doing something stupid like, for instance, saying _I love you_.

***

“Don't you stop,” she breathes into his neck. And she needn't have asked him for why should he stop: with his hands underneath her petticoats... it feels like heaven. 

He feels something pointy graze his neck and then he knows she's biting him and he flinches. She's holding his shoulders much too tightly, though he's not exactly trying to get free. He should be afraid and mortified, but he's not. He might die, he thinks, but, then, he's had this thought for two long years now. It's already a habit. Everybody dies and better be it like this than on the battlefield in some godforsaken muddy trench with his belly torn apart.

So, he just doesn't stop, his rhythm is a bit broken, but he's new to it and besides his neck hurts. And the blood loss's making his dizzy. But her body is rewardingly responsive and she's clenching her thighs and then he, probably, does it right, for she shudders under his touch and loosens her grip, disengaging. “Good sweet boy,” she gasps against his skin.

And she takes a step back and he sees her in all her predatory grace – veins around her darkened eyes, and fangs and lips, tainted with his blood. Perhaps, he should process it, but it's not really the best time for analysis. 

She pushes him back slightly and he falls. Fortunately, he lands with his back on the bed. He wants to sit up but he's too weak to move and he feels giddy. And next thing he knows, she's straddling him, her petticoats sanctimoniously covering the moment. She does what pleases her, but it certainly pleases him, despite the world swimming before his eyes. It's like he's watching fireworks but can't really focus.

And then a thought hits him. 

“Stop!” he pleads. “Wait!”

His outburst comes unexpectedly for she actually stops moving. And he looks up at her, terrified:

“All those animal attacks,” he begins, “those men. Did you... _play_ with them too? Like this?”

She blinks and for a second her stare is blank, “Is _that_ what bothers you?” she smirks, resuming her slow action.

“Yes,” he nods, trying to prop himself on his elbows, “as a matter of fact it does.”

She pushes him back on the bed again. “We're being a little territorial now, huh?”

“Then I'm not doing it,” he says. Which is ridiculous under the circumstances. So he struggles hard for his voice to have some effect, “I'm serious,” he persists, “I'm not being just _another_ one.” 

She glowers at him, pouting. Then favours him with a cruel half-smile. “If being _the other_ one makes you feel better...” she trails off, pinning his arms to the bed. And he knows there's a catch in her words, a deadly trap, but she bends down and starts kissing him and she moves in a divinely harsh manner, and he loses it. His mind, and his self-respect and even the sense of self-preservation. And when she actually moans his name he's a man lost, and yep, he's a basket case. He doesn't even care if she kills him right after. 

Katherine presses her fingertip to his lips, and it tastes of blood. He looks at her quizzically and she holds his gaze, her pupils dilating. 

“Sleep,” she says. “When you wake up, you will remember none of it. Just one little kiss.”

***

He remembers it now. Far gone are those days when it occurred to people to call him sweet. Or innocent. Or Katherine's boy-toy. He doesn't even love her any more. He wanted to kill her, for fuck's sake! He _would_ 've killed her, had he been there when she attacked Elena. Most probably he should kill her now, before she wakes up... _human_. 

But indiscriminate forgiveness has never been one of his strong suits. And neither has been … what's the word? Ah, mercy. 

He could revel in it now – in revenge, that is. Bite and compel and relish in her blood and her misery. Use her weakness like she used his. 

He chuckles. The things that come to his mind are just so empty. He feels nothing towards Katherine. Neither hate, nor compassion. Except perhaps a little curiosity with a tiny shade of pity. That's what she felt for him, he reckons. That's what vampires feel for a human they don't love. 

She moans in her troubled sleep, which in reality is some kind of a back-transition. He guesses she will be cold now that she's _warm_ again, so he covers her with a duvet, he's brought to the cellar from upstairs. He's also brought a bottle of 'Evian' and some fresh croissants.

He doesn't know why he's actually doing this. But he knows that Stefan, and the Blondie and half of the Mystic-Falls populace, and, well, Elena will question his sanity and even his allegiance. And to be honest, he can't say that he doesn't care about their opinions... fine! Elena's opinion!

He closes the cellar door behind him and sighs. _Life sucks_ and now he should probably get Katherine a helmet. He doesn't love her, but he did once, and as far as he is concerned, it matters. 

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing, no commercial gain intended, pleasure only


End file.
